


But Maybe It's For The Best

by mydogfoundthechainsaw



Category: National Football League RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Peyton can't leave tom alone, Random football players abound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1385482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogfoundthechainsaw/pseuds/mydogfoundthechainsaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the heartbreaker that was the Super Bowl, Peyton finds himself back in Tom's arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Maybe It's For The Best

**Author's Note:**

> Just FYI, nothing here is mine except the story. the people and stuff are real, just not what happened. probably. This was cross-posted to LJ.
> 
> Also. We never talk about Super Bowl XLVIII. It never happened. I don't know what you're talking about. Stop now.

     He’d lost the big one again, in the shittest, most spectacular way possible. It might not have been all his fault, but still. They’d put their trust in him. And he didn’t have that long left. Not really, no matter what he wanted. It’d just been an absolute screw-up, in every which way. Everyone was too nervous, too off, to be good. They—he—could’ve—should’ve—done better. But he congratulated everyone, anyways, even checked on Sherman. They’d won—although he certainly made it almost impossible not to.

    The team was in a bittersweet mood. They were happy to have made it this far, but they were all disappointed with the ending. With that blowout. And everything would change next season, so they were all worried they wouldn’t be here for another fifteen years. He couldn’t blame them—Indy had only gone to two during his time—and several key people might be leaving next year. Nobody wanted to say anything in the locker room. He could feel the depression coming in waves off of Wes, who’d been to his third loss. Demaryius was making pained faces as Eric massaged his shoulder—the kid had played through dislocation and for nothing The O-line shuffled around uneasily, clouds of anger after being shown up by the D-line of the Seahawks, as the defense awkwardly tried to console Champ while attempting to pretend their mission was not to console him. The special teams guys were in their corner like they always were, now arguing over whether Prater’s tattoos had somehow guaranteed the Seahawks win. No one could believe it. They knew they could do better, and they hadn’t.

   Coach had let them leave, out free for one night. Everyone had wives and sons and daughters and families to get back to. They’d get a talking-to later, but right now, it wasn’t worth rubbing salt in the wound. John had just kind of looked at them, heartbroken; he had known how hard it was to lose a Super Bowl, especially by this much. Peyton had tried to reassure all the guys, make them feel a little better about next year, about this one, but it was hard to seem authentic when you looked at his face.

    He’d seen his family first. Eli had given him the awkward hug he was famous for, accompanied by a giant—no pun intended—cloud of sadness and some mumbling about feelings. He was the one for that kind of stuff, but he truly did mean it. Cooper had just smiled and said, “You had a good ride getting here, right? One game isn’t the end. You’ll learn, and so will they. You’ll be back.” He was right, of course, and Peyton knew it. But one game, in this place? It left a “legacy.” After such a great season, this was such a letdown. Everyone seemed to love him—he was great in the regular season—but they never knew if he would follow through out of season. His parents were loving, as always, and Ashley? She’d just hugged him and dragged him free from everyone. Somehow, they’d gotten back to her hotel room unscathed, but she had wanted to go to sleep. The game had wired him up, made him want something he shouldn’t have had a taste for. And she knew what it was, and he knew what it was, and she just smiled and shook her head. She didn’t care, she wanted him to be happy, but she always felt that Tom wasn’t a good thing to have too much of.

   But he’d never get Tom out of his system, he’d found, even after two years of their only contact being game time. They’d been texting, at Tom’s insistence, but it wasn’t going anywhere. No feelings were involved. Tom had a habit of burying himself in the game, in putting it all on the field. Peyton knew he was the same, but he’d realized how such a life was meaningless. He just hoped it wouldn’t take Tom too long to figure that out. The breakup was his idea, yes, but when you’ve been with somebody for that long, and lived the way they had? They were linked, inextricably, in football and in love. The breakup was just a way of forcing them—Tom really—to decide what mattered. But his plan hadn’t worked out. His plans always worked out.

  Except when Tom was involved. He still remembered when they first met, when they were young and Tom was unknown, some scrappy California kid with a dream. Peyton had heard about him, but seeing him in person was a different story. There was a fire, something that wanted to be heard, and with that dorky dimple and cocky smile? He was smitten. No one could blame him if he’d asked him out for lunch—to talk the game, of course—but he really hadn’t expected what would ensue. He’d just hoped he’d get to be around Tom for a little while long, just know him before he’d become his mortal enemy on the field. But Tom was pushy, intuitive, bold. And for some strange reason, he’d found Peyton’s dry humor and Southern drawl and curling lip appealing. He hadn’t planned to find himself calling Tom in his spare time. He wasn’t supposed to wake up next to him whenever season was out. He wasn’t supposed to find love with the one person he’d never be able to share it with. That’s not how it was supposed to go. That wasn’t part of Peyton’s plan. He was supposed to play football, do it well, always be there for his family, make a fake, yet happy, married life with Ashley, and ignore that side of himself that screamed he liked boys. Yet Tom had screwed up every one of his plans along the way.

     And now Tom was screwing up his plans for wallowing in self-pity. He was contaminating Peyton’s thoughts, making him calculate how long of a drive it was to Tom’s apartment, how likely it would be Tom was still there, how likely he was to let him in. And unfortunately, it wasn’t a long drive to his apartment, and he knew Tom was still packing. If he knocked, Giselle might let him in and take the kids to go bitch with Ashely, or she might scream at him in Portuguese, creating a shit-storm of attention that he wasn’t ready for. But the fire that was in his veins, pissed off from the game, put him in a cab and got him to drive up to Tom’s neighborhood.

    It couldn’t get him in the door though. He stood outside, staring up at the door, hoping the answer would magically reveal itself and he’d know which play to call. But the door didn’t rearrange itself into a shape he’d seen before, that would let him know it was safe to go outside. And it was kind of weird, he realized, to be standing outside Tom Brady’s door after just losing the Super Bowl. What kind of image would that leave? So instead he decided to sneak up to the roof, hoping the stars would align themselves and shout what he should do next.

    He stood up there, in the cold night air, squinting his eyes and tilting his head, but he learned nothing. Time slipped away from him, and his bones wanted to be warm, to be somewhere that was home. Ashley was home, Eli and Coop and his parents were home, his kids were home, but the person who was home to him, most of all? He was downstairs, probably thinking that Peyton had won and was celebrating. Except he wasn’t. He was here, on his ex-lover’s roof, praying for a sign that would tell him to find comfort in the one person who’d understand best. And the sign wasn’t coming, but he wasn’t going either. Maybe when they made a documentary of his life, they could entitle it something clever like that—about how he was the master of planning but never knew what to do when the plan failed.

       Because the plans always fell through when it came to love. He’d realized that. And he was still calculating, planning, preparing some speech that would solve all of his problems when arms encircled his waist and a head settled onto his shoulders. Tom kissed him on the cheek and let him stare into the skyline for a moment before speaking. “I’ve been checking all night. I was hoping I wouldn’t find you up here.” He let his words settle for a moment, and then wrapped their fingers together, holding on as if he could make them one. “Giselle watched the game for me. I couldn’t…it was too nerve-racking. You should’ve fucking won, Peyt.” He didn’t process Tom’s word’s for a second, instead preferring to memorize the feeling of falling right back into Tom’s arms. Like he always had. “We didn’t even get close. But we didn’t even try.” And Tom kept breathing into the side of his neck and rubbed circles on his hands with his thumb. He could’ve stayed that way forever.

   Then somehow Tom had gotten in front of him and his view of the skyline was replaced with him. They were closer than they’d been in a long time, and Peyton breathed it in. He smelled like he always did—some weird, foreign, expensive cologne that must’ve been made just to make Peyton want to abandon his plans and do crazy things—but that cocky, self-sure smile had been exchanged for a depressed one. But he wasn’t doing anything. For some reason, Tom was waiting patiently this time, letting the wheels run amuck in his head, and he really couldn’t stand it anymore.

      So he kissed him. He put all the fire that he hadn’t used in the game in that kiss, and he wanted it to go on forever. Tom kissed back like he always did, hard and rough and with enough fire to burn them both up. Tom’s hands were tracing the scar on his neck, finding the spots that made him want to scream, while his were finding their way through his hair to his ass, where they’d always fit perfectly. Everything was coming back to him, and he wondered how he had stayed away this long. Finally, Tom pushed him away. It was a cold shock on an evening full of disappointments, but Tom was smiling. “Losing really does help sometimes, huh? I never thought I’d get you back.” Peyton started laughing then—they always ended up here. Their relationship had been rocky from the start, separated by miles and obligations and life, but it always ended up here, with one unable to resist the other. And Tom just shook his head, smiling that “my boyfriend’s a dumbass” smile, and dragged him inside, complaining about the cold.

       Tom’s place was boiling, like he loved it, but something was missing. There were papers everywhere, with scribbled notes, but it looked like Tom was the only one living there. He wasn’t saying anything, just fixing them drinks, so Peyton wandered over to the table covered in notes. Some were news articles, others legal documents, and lastly personal correspondences, but he noticed a theme. They were all about being gay, about coming out. He looked up, eyes full of curiosity, when Tom handed him a glass. “So I’ve been thinking. It’s a really fucking stupid plan, but everyone’s semi-okay with it, even Coach. And that miracle shouldn’t be wasted.” That thought hung in the air, and Peyton’s wheels started spinning. “You don’t have to come out. Just…be there, would you? You make everything okay.”

    The only word Peyton could choke out was a why. Tom just smiled. “I’m Tom fucking Brady, baby. The real question is why I haven’t done this sooner. Everything would’ve been different.” And Peyton wanted to push him down then and there. He wanted to lose and find himself in those green-blue eyes, in that dimple, in that great body that he knew all the weak spots of. But he was a master of control. So instead he took a step back. “Don’t. Just wait for a week, or so. Let me think about all this.” He wasn’t sure where that impulse came from, but he didn’t want Tom to go it alone. Everything was changing around him, and perhaps it was time he was the one making changes. He could imagine the shitstorm that would ensue when everyone found out, but if they did it together, the backlash would be different, more explainable. And perhaps it’d stop the crap talk about his legacy.

   Tom looked confused, like he hadn’t expected his words. And it was going to be hard, Peyton knew, to make everyone okay. But his family had always needled him about his “grand romance with Tom Brady,” and he was pretty sure most of the Colts’ organization and at least half of the Broncos’ one had suspicions. But he didn’t feel like planning. His night’s plans kept falling short, so he went with his gut and started kissing Tom. His hands started wandering, unbuttoning, stripping Tom down just so they would be closer. He felt like he was young again, stupid and naïve enough to think he’d found his true love. So many things had happened over the years, so many fights and days of ignoring each other and having the best make-up sex on the planet, that sometimes he wondered if this would ever happen again. But here he was, in Tom’s apartment, after a horrible disappointment of a game and surrounded by plans that could make or break them, kissing him like he could find himself if he could just get a little closer. And he knew then that he was never letting him go.


End file.
